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Trip Start
Oct 01, 2005
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67
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Trip End
Jul 21, 2007
Sydney,
Australia
Sunday, July 23, 2006
It was indeed time to begin the search for our vehicle in earnest, and on a typically cold and rainy Sunday morning in July, Kerry, Nick and I walked in to the hotbed of Sydney camper van action: Kings Cross, with our bargain heads on. The only problem was that the actual car savvy was weighted heavily with Mr. Yates, so Kerry and I were there mainly for moral support and to check the extras like cushions, stereo, tents, cutlery and fishing rods
Molly
. We descended into the lower floor of the dingy multi-storey car park which doubles as a backpackers car market and started prowling. The moment the lift doors opened the foul stench of the damned hit us. Inside this pit we found a breed of traveller the like of which we hadn't previously encountered, these creatures looked as though they had been in this dripping subterranean concrete lair for years. Sunlight starved, pale, stubble bound animals (and thats just the females!), gripped by a schism of cabin fever and sheer desperation, they crouched around plastic camp tables with mitts full of sweat stained playing cards, muttering excitedly like a pack of jawas to each other as we entered their domain. The place was littered with abandoned shells: the skeletons of cars and doomed salesmen. They and the previous occupants/inmates had etched mad screeds onto the wall beseeching their inevitable successors, ''LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN!'', one tortured soul had adulterated a 'Give Way' sign to read 'GIVE THE VAN AWAY!!!!' The five bar gates scratched onto the walls a grim testimony of the depressing length of time before sale and subsequent escape.
Unfortunately we were not in a position to profit from the poor inmates of this draconian hell hole and are quite patently jinxed because the 1982 'pop-top' Mitsubishi L300 that stood way out from the rest of the rust riddled selection was being hawked by the liveliest looking Welsh couple who were fresh fish - veritable bag snatchers next to the rest of this wretched rabble of serial killer lifers
Molly #2
. They were shrewd operators this pair, not half as dense as the accent made out, and as they had only been down there a matter of hours, still had all their bargaining sense and bodily faculties intact. The paperwork was in good order; they had a full service history, and could demonstrate that the original owners had been elderly: always a good sign. But the devil was truly out to foil our plans and by the time we came back to make an offer, a German trio were attempting to usurp our position! They had in fact viewed the van the day before and were returning to seal the deal. This could not happen. Molly (sadly, she had already been christened by the previous owners) had to be ours. We appealed to our fellow Brittons and took her for a spin around the block. The engine ran fine even though she handled like a WWII tank. When we pulled back into the car park the Germans were still lingering, jabbering urgently at the poor couple in broken English, eager to close the deal and thwart the Brits. But providence finally played it's card and when they turned the ignition key, nothing. The engine did not even murmur. Now either Poyser had flooded the engine with impeccable timing or the engine was really knackered, or Molly was simply meant to be ours. Looks of consternation fell over the faces of the interlopers and indeed the taffies as well. They couldn't understand what was happening and appeared to be genuinely confused and upset, too, that the potentially juicy bidding war was collapsing. We realised that the time was right to make a strategic withdrawal and let the situation develop naturally so repaired to a nearby coffeeshop manned by an eccentric old queen. We waited for the dust to settle and then placed a call, assuring the canny but nervous couple that we were definitely interested and willing to electronically transfer the money the following morning, assuming that the mechanical check uncovered no significant problems.
After that and the use of a little nationalistic leverage, well, the van was ours!
